by M. J. Rose
First he undid the brassiere’s hooks and then gently slipped the straps off my shoulders and dropped the lacy garment. He leaned down and mouthed first my right nipple and then my left. My skin puckered under his ministrations.
“Now for these …” he said, as he ran his hands up my legs, fiddling with the garters that held my hose in place. He deftly undid each one. Then, more slowly, he rolled the stockings down. As he did, he embraced my thighs, my knees, calves, and ankles.
By now, my breath was coming in short puffs. I reached out and buried my fingers in his hair, feeling the silken curls. He threw back his head and looked up at me again. His mouth was open, his eyes glazed.
“One more little thing, and then we’ll get you under the covers,” he said huskily, as he pulled down the lace garter belt, which he left lying on the floor as he indulged in the place between my legs with curious but very gentle fingers.
I heard a moan escape from between my lips.
“Oh, you’re in pain. No, no, that won’t do.” He laughed as he yanked down the coverlet and helped me into his bed.
Standing in front of me while I watched, he undid his trousers and stepped out of them and then his shorts. He was boldly and beautifully naked, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. I was torn between wanting him to join me in the bed or having him stay right where he was so I might continue gazing at him.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
I nodded, not quite trusting my voice, and held out my arms.
How do I describe what it is like when Mathieu and I are together? I am not the poet. Not the bard. Every word seems so pedestrian when I put it down. I want to write about how it feels as if the sky is raining stars on me. As if I am floating, then flying, then soaring. As if we are no longer earthbound. As if I am not flesh and blood anymore but pure sensation, and Mathieu is light—pure, burning, searing white light—entering me, gracing me, ennobling me, setting me on fire until I am burning and burning and then have no choice, want nothing but to explode. And I do.
After we played at love, I took a nap. While I slept, he slipped downstairs to the patisserie on the corner, and so I awoke to the smell of delicious, creamy coffee.
“Did you have a nice nap?”
“I did.”
“Take your pick.” He offered me the plate. On it was one Paris-Brest—a wheel of choux pastry filled with a delicious praline cream—and a lemon tart. I chose the Paris-Brest.
I took a bit of the delectable treat. The pastry was light, the flavored cream even lighter.
“I can’t believe how deeply I slept,” I said, with my mouth full of dessert.
“Life is a deep sleep of which love is the dream.”
“Yours?” I asked, hoping.
“No, Musset.”
“One day, you will recite your own poetry to me.”
He took a bite of his tart, first chewing too hard and then swallowing too quickly. “Why can’t you let that go?” he asked.
“Because I know how painful it would be for me to stop painting. Like losing part of myself.”
“But I’m not you. And it’s not painful.”
Except I could see in his eyes that it was.
“Can’t you tell me what happened to make you quit?”
He put the plate down on the floor with such force the fork jumped off.
“No!” he shouted. “I can’t. That’s the problem. I don’t know what happened past a certain point. I can’t remember anything after the attack started. The day I was wounded. The day Max was killed.”
I took his hand and held it. For a while, we just sat on his bed, amid the rumpled sheets redolent of our sex.
“Why don’t I draw you?” I said, the idea suddenly occurring to me. “I can look into the shadows and see what happened. Fill in the blanks for you.”
“I don’t need you to do that. Your presence is already a source of healing. I don’t think it’s a wise use of your power. Your supernatural gifts should remain sacred, only to be used when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, they can be made vulnerable by others’ greed, lust, and selfishness.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t have a limited amount of insight.”
“You don’t understand, Delphine. Your power is as sacred as our love …” He hesitated. “You shouldn’t be using your gift to do portraits on commission.”
I told Mathieu I couldn’t give them up, that the portraits were how I helped people.
“But taking money cheapens your gift. I wish you wouldn’t let your brother talk you into doing it.”
I bristled. “No one is talking me into doing anything I don’t want to do. And until you let me draw you with my blindfold on, you won’t understand.”
“And any secrets the universe is keeping from me I can leave well enough alone. Some things are meant to remain hidden.”
I shook my head. Saddened for him. For his stubborn refusal. “Please, let me help you heal,” I said.
“But you do. You make me feel lighter than I have in so long. As if you’re pushing the bad memories away and making room for new ones.”
Chapter 33
The morning after we’d found the instruments of torture, Madame Calvé, Gaspard, Sebastian, and I descended into the castle’s basement one level below the old kitchen. We were looking for an entry to the strange stone room I’d drawn. It was the only sketch that didn’t offer a clue to where it was. But judging from the amount of rock, the consensus was it had to be subterranean.
The cool air smelled of earth and age, dust and dirt. The ceilings were low and the spiderwebs profuse. Using lanterns, we proceeded to examine the deepest level of the castle.
There was nothing there. Just an emptied-out, hollow space that ran the length of the castle and led to an underground exit. An escape route created by the castle’s builders, we surmised.
Slowly, we made our way through the tunnel, tapping on walls and shining our lights on the ground, looking for trapdoors, thinking that perhaps there was yet another level that no one had ever discovered.
Shortly after noon, Madame called a halt to our efforts so we could break for lunch.
As he had the day before, Gaspard went home to eat with his son, and my brother and I and Madame dined together.
Gaspard joined us two hours later.
“I have something for you,” he said to me, before we descended into the depths of the castle. He held out a sheet of paper.
I looked down at a very well-articulated drawing of a butterfly, wings spread, filled in with delphinium-blue and black designs—some color inside the lines, some extending beyond.
In handwriting that was not as sophisticated as the sketch were the words For Mademoiselle Delphine. A friend for you to fly with.—Nicky.
“This is beautiful,” I said to Gaspard. “I’m moved that he thought to do this for me.”
“He was quite taken with you. He’s been talking incessantly about coming here to visit you for an art lesson. The only way I could leave the house just now was to promise that I would ask you.”
“Of course, tomorrow. I’d be delighted. He’s a very special little boy.”
Gaspard gave me an enigmatic look, as if he were trying to decide if my words held a deeper meaning.
“You can talk about your plans later, both of you,” Madame interrupted. “We need to get downstairs. I have guests coming this weekend and need to make preparations.”
For the next two hours, we continued our exploration of the damp, dingy lower level.
“There could be any number of false walls down here,” Madame said, as five o’clock approached. “We just can’t tell for sure by all this tapping and prodding.”
I knew she was disappointed. But I hoped she was going to accept defeat and Sebastian and I would be able to leave. I wasn’t ignoring my brother’s financial crisis, but I had thought up another solution. I owned a spectacular string of fire opals my great-grandmother had given me. When we got home, I would pawn i
t so Sebastian could start to pay down his debt, and in the meantime, I’d go to my parents and ask for help. I was satisfied that I’d come up with a way out that would allow me to leave the castle without feeling I’d failed my twin.
“But I’m convinced that the book is here, Delphine,” Madame said emphatically. “I have no doubt of it. Monsieur Flamel would not have told me to look if he didn’t think I could find it.” She turned around slowly, her lamp like a lighthouse searchlight, dust motes dancing in its beams. “Let’s go upstairs and have a cocktail. I have an idea. Gaspard, I want you to stay, please.”
I still hadn’t quite grasped the relationship between him and Madame. They didn’t treat each other like employee and employer. Nor like friends or equals. I sensed she tried his patience but that he found her entertaining—as we all did. And she seemed to rely on him and certainly trusted him.
Despite our dirty clothes, she led us to the sitting room, called for champagne and canapés, and then proceeded to mix us aperitifs by adding a layer of crème de cassis to each flute before pouring the sparkling wine.
“Delphine, I would like you to return to drawing and try to see something else about the room with the strange stones. I have a feeling that if you just look deeper, you may find a clue.”
I took a sip of the champagne laced with citrusy-sweet black currant liqueur. It was delicious but didn’t quell my mounting anxiety about staying, especially if it meant into the weekend.
I wanted to ask Madame about Mathieu. It would ease my mind to know that she hadn’t invited him. But even to say his name out loud was too tempting.
I felt Gaspard’s eyes on me and looked over at him. He offered me a caring, thoughtful smile that took the edge off my anxiety almost instantly. A sense of peace came over me, confusing me even as it soothed.
“You can try to look deeper into the room, past the stone walls, can’t you?” Madame pressed further.
Reluctantly, I nodded. “Yes, I can try.”
“Tonight?”
I looked at my half-empty glass of champagne.
“I’ll try, but I’m afraid it might not work. Sometimes alcohol interferes. If I can’t do it tonight, I’ll try again tomorrow morning.”
Sebastian was looking at me from across the table, his perfect smile beaming. I felt the sudden urge to stick my tongue out at him.
Instead, I looked back at Gaspard. “And please tell Nicky I’d be happy to come over tomorrow during lunchtime, if that is convenient, and give him a lesson.”
“We’d both be delighted.” He gave me another smile, the light catching his eyes, the fire in them softening into an amber glow. “But if it’s a nice day, why don’t you meet us at the little folly just past the garden by the pond? I’ll bring a picnic.”
It was such a pleasant invitation that it didn’t strike me until later that evening that it was the second time Gaspard had kept me away from his house.
Chapter 34
As I’d promised, I spent the early part of that evening, Thursday, by myself in the studio, wearing the blindfold and sketching. Despite the champagne, I did six more drawings of the mysterious grotto with its cold, wet stone walls etched with curious letter forms. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find anything in the room to suggest where it was. There were no windows. And the only door remained shut, even as I pushed and pulled at it in my mind.
When it was time for dinner, I called for the maid and asked her to have a tray brought up to the room. I needed more time. I knew a trip downstairs, having to make conversation with Madame and my brother, would just interrupt my concentration. Nervously, I went over my plan. Madame would pay us handsomely whether or not I was able to locate the book. That and the money made from pawning my opals would surely get my brother out of trouble. Then I would force him to confess to my mother. Even Madame’s party stopped preying on my mind. All that mattered was saving Sebastian. And all I felt was the danger coming closer.
I stopped drawing to eat the meal the kitchen sent up—roasted chicken with an artichoke soufflé and a lovely slice of apple tart served with crème fraîche. I didn’t drink the burgundy that arrived with the food, because I needed to keep working.
After I ate, I picked up the blindfold once more. It was cold when I lowered it over my eyes. I welcomed the satin touch. I heard faint noises outside my window and wondered if Madame and Sebastian were taking a stroll. Concentrating, I shut out the sounds and focused my attention on the pencil I held, running a finger down its smooth wood. My other hand rested on the paper, its rough grain centering me. In my mind, I searched the black abyss. Sightless, I peered into that empty stage and waited for the riddles to resolve, the shadows to settle.
I saw the stone room once again. The gray, wet, cold rock walls. The ancient carvings. I saw a shadow cast on the wall. If there was a shadow, didn’t there have to be a light source? Of course. Why hadn’t I looked for it before? In my mind, I turned around to find it. There was a man holding a lantern. It was Gaspard! On his face was a look of both surprise and resignation. He couldn’t understand how I’d found the place. And yet he’d known I’d find it eventually.
“Where are we?” I asked.
He began to tell me, his mouth moving, forming words, but there was no sound. I couldn’t hear his answer.
“One clue,” I asked him. “Just one hint, so I can give it to Madame and leave.”
The way he was looking at me, I sensed he was torn. That he wanted me to go and also to stay.
He held out a sheet of paper. I assumed it was a map and was grateful that he was sharing it. But when I looked at it, I saw it was his son’s butterfly drawing. Not a map at all.
I took off the blindfold, opened my eyes, and looked down at what I had sketched. Not the room, not the stones, not Gaspard. I’d drawn the butterfly.
I snapped my pencil in frustration. It split in half and cut my finger in the process. In the bathroom, I rinsed my hand off, my blood turning the running water pink. The sight of it made me gag. I was never good with blood. Neither was my sister Opaline. Her squeamishness had kept her from volunteering as a nurse during the war. I felt weak and grabbed hold of the sink. I closed my eyes and concentrated on relaxing, on breathing.
Finally stable, I let go, grabbed a linen, and wrapped it around the fleshy part of my thumb to stop the bleeding. Back in my room, I rang for the maid, this time asking for a bandage.
While I was waiting, Madame knocked on my door. “Are you all right, dear? I heard the maid was asking for a bandage.”
“My pencil broke. It’s just a scratch,” I said as I let her inside.
In a very maternal voice, she said, “Let me see,” and took my hand. “Not just a scratch at all. That’s a nasty gash, and it has a splinter in it. We’ll have to remove the wood and put some salve on the wound. Come with me.”
I followed her down the hall and into her suite. If the common rooms downstairs were forests, her suite was the inside of a flower. Everything was pale pink and delicate. The walls were covered in blush-colored moire silk, the Aubusson was leaf-green and the pink of a ballet slipper. There was a white piano in the sitting room, smaller than the grand black one downstairs, and the seat beneath it was a luscious shade of salmon. Her bathroom was done in the same pinks but in tile and marble with gold accents. And in the triple-winged mirror, I watched the world-class opera singer pour alcohol over my wound.
The gash was the shape of a perfect crescent moon. The symbol of the daughters of La Lune. I flinched.
“Am I hurting you, dear?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Is it the shape?” she asked.
“You know about that?”
“You forget that we were close, your mother and I, when she was young and confused about her ancestry. Pierre and I knew all about the symbol of La Lune.”
Madame spread an ointment on the wound and wrapped it with gauze that she tied expertly in a neat little knot.
“Thank you,” I said, examining
the bandage.
“When I was a young girl, I made a promise to my patron saint that if I ever became a singer, I would repay her by helping God’s poor. I fund an orphanage nearby where I take young girls from the slums in Paris. And I try to visit them often. Not just to stand and stare at them but to give them singing lessons. Eat with them. Nurse them when they’re sick. I’ve learned how to tend to a wound or two. Now, just one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Will you show me the drawings that caused this mishap?”
“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I was going to try again in the morning.”
She couldn’t be deterred.
Back in the studio, Madame examined one after the other of my most recent sketches. She scrutinized each for so long I got bored watching her and poured myself a glass of the wine that had come with my dinner.
I’d finished one glass and poured a second when she finally put down the last sheet.
She shook her head. “There really is nothing here to tell us where the subterranean cavern is. Damn you, Nicolas!” She balled her hand into a fist and banged it down on the side table where I’d put a jar of pencils. She hit the wood so hard that the jar bounced and then fell, spilling its contents all over the floor. I immediately got down to pick them up.
“I’m sorry,” Madame said, as she stood, preparing to help.
“No, I’ve got them.” I finished gathering them. “And I’m sorry about the drawings. I keep trying to leave the room in my mind and get beyond it so I can see where it is. I can usually move around like that while I’m wearing the blindfold. Go past a first scene into another. But not when I’m in the stone room. I feel trapped there. As if there is no way out.”
“I wonder if that’s a clue to where it is? That you can’t find an exit or an entrance.”
She picked up the drawings again and went through them carefully. “Where could there be a space like this? How can you hide an entrance?” She paused. “In Egypt, we toured the pyramids. Once the kings were entombed, the entrances to their resting places were hidden. Do you think this might be a tomb?”
